


Come In From The Cold

by oldenuf2nb



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 02:09:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldenuf2nb/pseuds/oldenuf2nb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is all about choices.  Draco feels the weight of his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come In From The Cold

COME IN FROM THE COLD

 

He wondered if it was possible to freeze to death from the inside out.

He’d been cold ever since the news had reached them three days before, in stark black lettering on the snowy white parchment, the words so solemn, so final. 

“We regret to inform you….”

He didn’t remember much after that. 

Sitting beside his mother, holding the icy hand that clutched his. Looking at the caskets, then the urns, then the marble stones. Snippets of conversation drifted to him through the haze.

_“We’ll want his dress robes, the black velvet ones.”_

_“Yes, the black cane, with the silver snake head. No, no, the wand is long gone, destroyed years ago…”_

_“I think white roses, and white calla lilies. They were his favorites…”_

_“No, the grey satin lining, I think. His hair will look so lovely against that color…”_

His mother had done so much better than he had; he’d been there, but he couldn’t seem to grasp what was happening. Philosophically, he knew of course. It had only been a matter of time. They’d been receiving regular reports from Azkaban; they’d known that his health was failing. But reading that on paper, even reading ‘we regret to inform you’, hadn’t prepared him for the reality that was seeing the truth for himself. 

He’d wanted to, had asked for it, but as he’d stared down at the lifeless face, hair still long but lackluster, white, not white-blond, cheeks sunken and skin crepe-like over a bone structure that had never been so prominent, it occurred to him for the first time that his father was… gone. That force of nature, the strong, tall, fiercely handsome, sometimes cruel but always determined patriarch of an old and proud family was no more. 

Never once had he admitted to Draco that he’d made a mistake; that following the Mad Man had been the wrong course. Never once had he seemed to recognize that his prejudices and arrogance had led to his own downfall. He’d believed steadfastly until his last breath in the pure-blood madness that had nearly caused the destruction of their world, and he’d never renounced the old ways. No, the only thing he’d renounced had been his son, and he’d done so with a cold lack of emotion that had stung, and still stung.

As that son stood at his grave, the wind pulling at his own white-blond hair and grabbing greedily at his heavy black over-coat, staring at the earth that had been magically smoothed into a mound before the elaborate white marble marker had been set in place, he remembered the look in the grey eyes, so like his own, when his father had finally, finally recognized the truth. Draco’s truth.

It had been just after he was sentenced to life in Azkaban, in the five minutes he’d been allocated to tell his family good-bye. The antechamber had been dismal and stuffy, and he’d lingered near the door as his parents had embraced for what would prove to be the last time. He’d waited, watching, as his father’s head had lifted, and he’d stiffened as he’d seen the cold fury in that unblinking regard.

“You’ve shamed me,” Lucius said softly in the smooth, cultured hiss that had turned many a man’s knees to water. “If you choose this, if you choose him, then you are no son of mine.”

“Lucius, please,” his mother had begged. “You may never see him again. Don’t let it be like this, please.”

But his father merely stared at him over the top of her fair head. “You must choose, Draco: right here, right now.”

The silence after his pronouncement had been complete. Draco’s heart had been hammering in his chest like a maddened thing, and his mouth had gone dry, but as he’d stared into those cold grey eyes, he’d not once questioned his answer. He’d made his mistakes when he was younger, tried to earn his father’s approval with nearly disastrous results. He wouldn’t do that again.

He’d lifted his chin and spoken softly, but resolutely. “I choose him.”

Something had flickered briefly in Lucius Malfoy’s eyes before going out, something his son would never be able to define, before they’d darkened in dismissal. “So be it.”

And that, as they say, had been that. He’d turned and left the room without a backward glance, and Draco had never seen him again. Not until three days before, and only then because the man had been dead and unable to protest. As Draco stood there, staring at the words that were etched into the cold white stone, he realized that there was so much that had been left unsaid between them: so many things that he would have wanted his father to know, to understand…

…That he’d found forgiveness, and redemption, with the very people whose lives he’d once lived to make miserable. That he was a friend to Ron Weasley, a better friend to Hermione Granger-Weasley, and one of a pair of godfathers to their infant son.

…That he had learned that as much as he loved the material things life had to offer, there were, in fact, more important things than Armani robes and Prada boots. 

…That for all of his Muggle fascination and his genteel poverty, Arthur Weasley was far wealthier in the ways that mattered than Lucius had ever been.

…That Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini and Gregory Goyle, once removed from their fathers' (and in Blaise’s case, their mother’s) influences, were completely decent human beings who had managed to make a place for themselves in this new world of theirs. They were still Slytherins to the tips of their toes, as was he, but they’d worked hard and succeeded in changing people’s perceptions, and being a Slytherin was no longer something to be feared and rejected outright.

…And that even though he had been disowned not just for who he was but for who he had chosen to love, he would not alter that choice in the slightest. That the one moment of absolute clarity and courage when he had finally had the strength to be his own man had guaranteed him something beyond price.

All of those things, he wished he could tell his father. But even as he thought it, he knew it would not have made any difference. Lucius Malfoy would never have understood; the chasm never would have been crossed. The realization chilled Draco to the bone, and a faint trembling began inside, just beneath his heart. He wrapped his arms across his chest, tucked his hands under them, but still the cold that had begun when the owl had arrived from the Ministry merely grew, and now he felt brittle inside. Lucius Malfoy would never understand him, and there would be no chance for reconciliation; the small hope he’d held out that one day his father would forgive him whimpered into silence inside of him, and he closed his eyes, wondering if he’d ever be warm again. 

He heard someone approaching him slowly from behind, footsteps on the dried grass, but he did not acknowledge their presence. He couldn’t; he felt frozen in place, stuck there, as inanimate as the headstones around him. When strong hands settled gently on his hunched shoulders, he still did not respond to their touch. 

But when they slid over his shoulders, squeezing firmly before sliding down his arms and around his waist, he couldn’t continue to ignore them. When strong arms surrounded him and pulled him back into a solid body, when a warm face pressed against his cold cheek and he felt the soft caress of fragrant skin on his, he allowed his rigid spine to soften and curve to match the shape of the chest behind him. He leaned back into that solid strength with a shuddering sigh, and turned his face into a cashmere scarf that covered a sturdy, achingly familiar throat.

“Are you all right?”

The words were spoken softly, and he felt the vibration of them against his forehead. He began to nod, but then stopped and, in the interest of honesty, shook his head slowly instead. The hard arms tightened around him. 

“What can I do?”

He lifted his head and opened his eyes, finding bottle green irises behind the round frames of simple spectacles, inches from his. He studied them, took in the thick black lashes, the elegantly arched black brows, but mostly, the unselfish concern directed at him, for him. He stared into the eyes for a long moment, and near his heart something began to thaw.

“I’m cold,” he whispered, turning in the circle of arms, slipping his own around a slender waist. “Warm me?”

“Of course.” 

He felt gloved hands spread on his back and pull him closer, felt the solid warmth against him from his chest to his knees and ducked his head into the shadowy place between neck and shoulder and inhaled the subtle, spicy fragrance he loved. He felt a face turn into his hair, felt the brush of lips against his temple, and felt more of the cold seep away. 

“I love you.”

The words were spoken directly against his ear, and Draco shivered even as his hand slid up the strong back, gloved fingers curling around a heavy wool collar. 

“I know,” he breathed, gripping the fabric hard. “I know you do. And I love you too, Harry.” His voice broke then, and the tears he hadn’t even known he wanted to cry were suddenly dampening his lashes. “But my father is dead, and I can’t fix this,” he managed around the lump of ice in his throat. “And I’m… so cold.”

“Ssshhh, love. Here,” Harry said gently, reaching between them to quickly unbutton his own over coat, pushing it open, then settling Draco against him once again before wrapping the sides of the double breasted coat around his shivering form. “Better?”

Draco nodded, because it was.

The heat was all around him, the scent of Harry’s cologne filling his head, the softness of the cashmere scarf against his face. He burrowed into it and the muscular body beneath it and held on, understanding that while he might never have his father’s acceptance or forgiveness, in Harry he’d found shelter from the cold. 

He’d made the right choice.


End file.
